Liturgy of Attention
by
Laura McCullogh
You do not own a tree.
It’s green godliness is given
in each bud‑back, a forgiveness
for the cuts you’ve made.
You do not own this land, do not
yet understand moss or lichen,
the pacts plants keep in the dark.
What you do know
is attention
as liturgy, sacrament,
a poetics of prayer.
You look for a fractal
well‑becoming,
the inter‑weaves between we;
& for thresholds—
pots, jars, closets, trunks, glass bowls—
& also root fans, riveted seams,
lights on a river’s surface, luffing
in the sails of boats, tides in & out,
saltwater clearing in estuaries, sugars
singing in fermentations on shelves.
Maybe you’re an archaeologist
of the architecture of the ordinary,
but you’re a temporary guest here.
Today it’s about your bonsai—
Shari, Jin—the lip of a pot,
turn of a trunk, branches & form.
Looking at one of my trees, a friend
says, Still alive. Needs more care. & yet
across the street a car pulls up—
it's Dennis, back from three weeks
in the hospital. People coming & going,
feeding his cats—six of them, I think.
I’ve lived here just two months;
I don’t know any of their names.
I’m ashamed, even a little afraid: neighbor,
branch, breath, bowl, what gifts are given,
then given back—what limits; what little
we can do: still alive, needs more care.